The Strange Case of Too Many Men in a Curious Blue Box
by Karyukai
Summary: SuperWhoLock/ Sherlock and Dr Watson are called out to investigate their oddest case yet. Three people have gone missing and their only connection: a crack in the wall of their homes. But two supernatural hunters are also invested in this case. They can all agree on one thing, though. At the heart of it all is a well-known monster who goes by the name "Doctor". /Destiel and more
1. A Strange Case for a Strange Detective

**Warning: This story contains spoilers for season 7 and season 8 of _Supernatural_.**

* * *

**A STRANGE CASE FOR A STRANGE DETECTIVE**

They say the first weeping angel was one who wept for Lucifer when he fell. He pinned and cried so much for his fallen brother that the Lord forsake him, too, for an angel shall not love Lucifer; especially not before our Father and his mortal children.

- _a piece of paper torn from an unknown book; found in the diary of John Winchester_

* * *

At precisely ten o'clock in the morning, July 3rd, John Watson awoke to the sound of clapping. Steady, slow, booming claps. He groaned and tried to bury himself deeper into the armchair where he'd dozed off after breakfast. He was having such a marvellous dream about... About...

"Get. Up. John!" cried Sherlock, his flat mate, punctuating each word with a clap.

"What, Sherlock? _What_?" John glared at him, raising his head to watch him charge around the room.

"Lestrade called. There's a case!"

A measure of life returned to John at these words. Wonderful. Another case. John hid a smile by rubbing his face. It had been well over a month since Sherlock had agreed to take on work, '_Boring! Boring! I want something interesting!_', and despite how perpetually single minded Sherlock became during a case, John was pleased to see him excited.

"Where?" he asked.

"Peel Street," replied Sherlock. "Get your coat on, I've already called for a taxi."

Huffing, groaning and deliberately moving at a snail's pace, John wiggled into his slippers and did as Sherlock bade. It was always a pleasure to be needed.

The minute their sleek black cab pulled up, Sherlock was already out the door. "Come along, Watson!" he cried. John ran down the stairs after him, knowing Sherlock wouldn't hesitate to leave him behind if he dawdled.

"So, what is it?" John asked once on they were in the back seat.

"A missing person."

John waited for more, knowing this wasn't the kind of thing Sherlock found 'interesting'. "Yes?" he prompted.

"Third report this month, but the first report was in Scotland, and the second report in Dorset."

"That's opposite ends of the country!" John cried. "What ties them together?"

"A crack in their wall."

"What?"

"Exactly." Sherlock steepled his fingers, staring dead ahead out the windscreen.

"How long have they been missing?" John asked, despite recognising the far-away look in his eyes.

"A month, roughly, do pay attention. And be quiet."

Rolling his eyes, John held his tongue and watched the streets of London filter by. For the next twenty minutes, Sherlock ignored him, his eyes darting to and fro as he thought.

They entered Kensington and pulled up outside an average, terraced house on Peel Street; narrow and deceivingly small looking. John knew that the considerable depth of a Kensington house made up for its squashed width.

Sherlock bounded out the car, leaving John to pay. He held his breath and chose not to comment – _he's excited, he's not sulking, just pay and then jump out first next time. _

On the pavement, John waited and watched as Sherlock strode up and down outside the iron gate of number 188. It was cornered off with police tape and abuzz with curious neighbours, police sentinels and forensic scientists coming and going out the main door. By now, the constables of Scotland Yard knew Sherlock well enough to let him go about his own way.

With an air of nonchalance, Sherlock lounged up and down the pavement, gazing at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings. He took in the details almost affectionately.

John observed that the front garden of number 188 was neat and minimalist; a patio with a set of white, metal chairs and a table. Purple shrubbery hung under the living room window and everything was still speckled with water from last night's rain. The house itself was painted lavender blue, the door framed in white. Perhaps the prettiest house on the street.

As he did so, Sergeant Donovan charged out the front door. She spotted John first, then her gaze honed in on Sherlock with a barely hidden look of disgust. She chewed on her inside cheek and stomped over to John, her bushy hair bouncing on her shoulders.

"Figures you'd be here," she said, voice laced with contempt. "I didn't think this one would be bloody enough for _him_." Donovan shot a glare at Sherlock, who carried on scrutinising the shrubbery as if oblivious to her loud remarks.

"Yes, well," said John. Try as he might, every encounter with Donovan only deepened his dislike for her. Good sergeant, yes, very good at her job. Not so 'up there' on her manners or people skills. John couldn't help smirking. _Not so different from Sherlock, actually. _

"What?" she said, eyes narrowing.

"Nothing. But three cases linked together despite occurring at opposite ends of the country... Doesn't that seem like Sherlock to you?"

Donovan _hmphed_ and crossed her arms. He saw Sherlock pause by the railing and smile, before spinning on his heel and marching into the house.

"Ah, excuse me," said John, and followed Sherlock inside.

In the hallway they were met by a tall, flaxen-haired man, with a notebook in his hand. He nodded to Sherlock and wrung John's hand.

"Gregson," greeted Sherlock, turning his back on the detective to examine the front door. Before Gregson could get in a word, he asked, "Who forced open the door?"

"We did, it was locked," replied Gregson. "I'm glad you're here. I made sure everything was left untouched."

Sherlock spun around to face him again. "Except that!" he answered, pointing at the wooden floor. It was covered in splotchy, dusty boot prints. "If a herd of buffaloes had passed along there couldn't be a greater mess. No doubt, however, you drew your own conclusions before you permitted this?"

Gregson faltered and John pursed his lips, always uncomfortable to be in the same room as these two. Sherlock did like to wind Gregson up. John studied the floor instead, clasping his hands one over the other.

"I've had so much to do inside the house," Gregson cried. "Lestrade is here. He was supposed to look after this, not me."

Sherlock glanced at John and raised his eyebrows sardonically. "With two such men as yourselves on site, there won't be much for a third party to find out," he said. His tone could so easily be misconstrued as complimentary, and as expected, that's how Gregson took it.

Gregson rubbed his hands together in a self-satisfied way. "I think we've done all that can be done," he answered, "it's a weird case though, and I knew your taste for weird."

"It's a wonder you bothered to call at all," said Sherlock, dripping with so much false pleasantry even Gregson noticed. "Shall we?" With that, Sherlock pushed him aside and headed into the kitchen at the other end of the hall. John squeezed past as well, thought to apologise for Sherlock, but found the words caught in his throat. Never mind.

The kitchen was stylish and had polished countertops with a separate area for a tiny dining table. Whoever lived here kept the place in good order, or so John suspected. It was hard to tell with half a dozen forensicists crammed in, their tool kits spread out on all available surfaces.

"Lestrade!" cheered Sherlock, brushing past the greying Detective Inspector and heading straight to the fridge. It was always hard to tell with Sherlock, but John had a hunch that Lestrade was his favourite member of Scotland Yard.

"It's about time," said Lestrade, "we're almost done here."

"Is that why you let everyone traipse through the hallway?" asked Sherlock from the depths of the fridge.

"Well they've gotta traipse somewhere. Look, there's nothing here. The crack is upstairs, in the bedroom."

Sherlock shot up straight and shut the fridge. "The _crack_," he said slowly, analysing the calendar pinned onto the door. "What an eloquent name. I hope your wife named your children and not you."

John stifled a laugh. Sherlock was certainly in an excellent mood.

"Thanks very much," replied Lestrade.

With a tight smile, Sherlock cast a glance around the rest of the kitchen, eyes darting everywhere, before striding back into the hall. He crossed the space in three long strides and leapt up the stairs, taking them two at a time. John, Gregson and Lestrade hurried to keep up.

"Who lived here, then?" puffed John, casting a glance down at Lestrade close behind him.

"An Amelia Pond," he replied. "She's a model and was involved in a perfume campaign. Petri... Petri-something."

Gregson barrelled John and Lestrade aside, desperate to be the first one into the bedroom with Sherlock.

"Petrichor," Gregson puffed. "We'll never get anywhere if you don't remember the details, Lestrade." He broadened his chest with pride and disappeared through the third door on the landing.

Lestrade clenched the top of the banister. "Always a bloody contest with him," he muttered to John. "Go on, after you. Can't deprive Sherlock of the only one who _actually _understands him."

"I don't know about that," John replied, despite feeling his stomach swoop with joy. He tried not to measure his worth gauged upon the appraisal of his partnership with Sherlock, but sometimes he couldn't help it. Who wouldn't want to be known as the only man who truly understood Sherlock Holmes?

Ms Amelia Pond's bedroom, on first glance, looked cluttered. Nothing like the cleanliness they'd left behind in the kitchen. Blue walls and simple décor, but covered in memorabilia. A vanity-table stood in the corner, buried beneath hand-knit dolls of a man in a bow-tie; most propped up against a miniature, cardboard police box. Probably something from her childhood.

The shelves were stacked with books, many of them bright and colourful, like children's books, and the window was half blocked up with a stack of yellowing volumes. Clothes were slung over the end of her bed railing, across her vanity stool and on the floor beside her nightstand. Above her unmade double bed, hung a picture of a Roman tugging along a giant stone block. A woman of history, perhaps, and who lived a chaotic lifestyle.

And there, on the wall opposite the Roman, was a jagged crack running through the brickwork. John had to admit, it was an impressive size – nothing like the hairline fissure he had been expecting. What could be so significant about a crack in someone's wall? He still couldn't tell, and felt eager to hear Sherlock's thoughts.

Lestrade and Gregson hovered by the offending mark, staring at it as if confronted with Sudoku. Sherlock, however, continued to inspect the whole room first.

"There's a ring here," said Lestrade, staring between his feet. "I made sure it wasn't moved. It looks like a wedding ring."

At this, Sherlock stopped stroking the half-dead house plant on top of the chest of draws and swept over. He threw his navy trench coat out behind him and crouched down to the ring. John and the others stepped back, giving Sherlock space to twirl it between his fingers.

"She was recently divorced, I take it," said Sherlock. "There are no signs of a man living here. She still loves him, too, otherwise this would be hidden in a box, buried in a draw out of sight. She keeps it out to admire... The ring is shiny, so she probably plays with it a lot, keeps it in her pocket or on her nightstand.

"The question is, why is it here, on the floor, and not with her? She takes care of things with sentimental value." He rose to his feet and nodded at the knitted dolls. "Unlikely they're a gift, she doesn't keep pointless decoration, so they must mean something to her. The dolls, plus the numerous children's books around her room, makes me suspect she wants children, but her partner didn't, so they divorced."

"Yes, she was married to a Rory Williams," said Lestrade. "I don't know about the children part."

Gregson scoffed and bounced on the balls of his feet. "Doesn't seem like a wild conclusion to me."

"I didn't say it was," shot Lestrade, grinding his teeth. "But that still doesn't answer the real question. Where did she go, and how did this crack get here?" He jabbed his finger towards the wall, as if he wanted to shove Gregson through it.

Trying his best to block out the two detectives, John stood back to get a better look at the wall. His brow furrowed, and he turned in a complete circle, taking in the whole room again. Well, that was odd...

Sherlock smiled at him and caught his eye. "What are you thinking?"

"Her room's a complete mess, well, she doesn't seem organised, anyway. But that space there..." John waved his arms, trying to encompass the floor space beneath the crack. "It's empty. No boxes, no socks, no books. This whole section of the room is bare."

"Very good, John," said Sherlock, full of enthusiasm and none of it patronising. John kept his serious-business face in check, hiding the pride that bubbled up inside.

"For some reason," Sherlock went on, "Ms Pond avoided this area, probably subconsciously. This crack hasn't just appeared. It's been here since she moved in."

Gregson and Lestrade shared a look. John could already figure out that if a crack tied together three missing person reports from across the country; then that crack had to be identical in all three instances to draw attention; or be in the exact same sort of room; or represent something, like a graph. It could not have been here all along.

The three of them were all thinking the same question. Gregson was the first to voice it. He pulled out a photo from his shirt pocket and pressed it to the wall.

"How is that possible?" he cried. "This crack is _exactly _the same shape and diameter as the two found in Scotland and Dorset. I'm telling you, it's a signature. Someone is abducting these people and leaving these cracks behind as his or her mark."

"Right," said Lestrade, standing firmly beside Gregson on this one. "You'd need tools, time, probably a stencil to get the same shape. Two coincidences? Sure. Three? These cracks are deliberate and the fact that they're found in the homes of three missing persons makes it unlikely that these cracks are here by chance."

Sherlock only smiled at them; the one smile that infuriated everyone. It deepened his eyes and stretched his lips thin, it said: _I know something you don't know. You're looking at it wrong. How adorable._

"He's right," said John, also not a fan of That Smile. "How can this crack be identical to the others if it's always been here?"

"I don't know," beamed Sherlock. "But that, my friend, is the right question." He went up to the wall and pressed his ear to the crack. They waited in silence. "What's on the other side?" he asked after a moment.

"Next door's bedroom," answered Lestrade. "Why?"

"I can hear...a whisper..." Sherlock beckoned John closer to listen as well, but he hesitated.

"Sherlock, you can't just eavesdrop on someone's bedroom!"

Sherlock cast him a drivelling look, one that made John shrink inside. Sighing, he pressing his cheek to the wall, too. They stared at each other as they listened. It was extremely rare that Sherlock's eyes were near level with John's, and for a moment he thought, _huh, his eyes are a nice shape_, before looking away to concentrate.

A thin, cold stream of air tickled John's face. It leaked from the crack at a steady flow, as if it were part of a cave entrance.

"It's just the wind," he said. "But yeah, it sounds a little bit like garbled voices. You could say that about seashells though."

"But where is the wind coming from?" asked Sherlock.

John pressed his mouth shut, unable to answer. Smiling again, Sherlock strode the door and paused to give Lestrade and Gregson stern looks. "I want someone to knock through that wall," he said. "See what's going on in there. Wires, probably. A miniature camera, or maybe a means of communication."

"We can't just—" began Lestrade.

"Let me know what you find!" And with that, Sherlock pocketed Ms Pond's ring and darted from the room.


	2. Driving on the Wrong Side

**DRIVING ON THE WRONG SIDE**

"This is ridiculous," spat Dean, throwing his toasted sandwich back onto his plate. "I don't know where any of these places are, signal out here is crap – and why does the cheese taste weird?"

Opposite him, his brother, Sam, could only sigh. He slumped his massive shoulders and slapped the map on the table with the back of his hand.

"We better find something soon," Dean went on, "or I swear, I'm going back home with or without Kevin. Every time I open my mouth these people look at me like I'm a wild animal. I'm gettin' a complex, man!"

"It's not that bad," said Sam. "I mean, I know what you mean, but..." He sighed again and looked out across the fields, squinting against the summer sun. They were currently in a beer garden, in the middle of nowhere, overlooking hundreds of undulating green hills.

Grumbling, Dean picked up his sandwich, thought about it, and then changed his mind. Definitely not the right kind of cheese. They'd been stuck in the UK far longer than he liked. At first it had been fun; hearing Scottish people speak, eating Scottish food, purifying the house with the weird crack in it. But the novelty had gradually worn off.

They didn't have the impala, so they had to rent a car, and driving on the wrong side of the road in a shitty vehicle gave Dean bad dreams at night. People here were aggressive on the road, everything cramped together! He vowed never to drive from one end of England to other ever again.

"I like it here," Sam said, so quietly Dean thought he misheard him. He looked out across the Dorset hills, too (generally speaking, because who knew what any of them were called - location names seemed to change every six miles), preparing to disagree, but he couldn't knock the view.

"Yeah well. _You're_ driving through London. I think I'm gonna go full on _Road Rash _if I get behind the wheel again," Dean said. "I can't believe we're doin' this. You realise we won't be able to use a single gun, right?"

"I know. But hunters existed long before guns, Dean."

"Is that supposed to make me feel any better?" He gave Sam a hard look, but he didn't shy away. He'd noticed Sam rarely flinched under his gaze any more. "Well, I'd sure feel a lot better if a certain _angel _showed up!" Dean raised his voice, eyes flickering to the sky.

For a few seconds his chest constricted, desperately hoping Castiel would appear, but he didn't. Familiar disappointment settled in his stomach. He hadn't seen Cas since leaving America, and before that they'd only spent a month in his company.

Cas had returned from purgatory; battered, bruised, broken; and Kevin had vanished. One minute the boy had been stood there, and the next, Cas lay slumped on the floor in his place. The only clue they had to go on was a crack in the wall of Kevin's boat cabin. They couldn't afford to just _lose_ a prophet.

Still, all Dean could really think about was Cas. He worried for him. Worried about the hollow look in his eyes and his lack of energy. What was he playing at?

"Yeah," said Sam, "Cas would make me feel better, too, but he's not here. We've gotta do this alone. For now." Even Sam couldn't resist glancing at the clouds. "The third crack is here." He pointed to a street in London. "Apparently an Amelia Pond has gone missing, last seen entering her home at 11pm last night."

"But let me guess," said Dean, his voice flat, "she disappeared without ever leaving the house, according to surveillance."

"Right." Sam didn't seem deterred by his brother's flippancy. "She was single, recently divorced and worked as a perfume model."

"Nice."

"But get this, she's had a history of long disappearances all throughout her life."

Dean perked up, leaning closer. Something new? About damn time. All the other disappearances had led to dead ends, and with no apparent connection between any of them. Other than the crack, of course (heh, crack), and that each of the missing persons had a miniature police box in their home. Apart from Kevin. No police box on his boat, not that Dean could remember... Ugh, this case sucked.

"Yeah, her parents," Sam continued, "just disappeared when she was seven. Vanished without a trace. She lived alone for months before anyone looked into her parent's absence. So, she was sent to live with her aunt in England."

"Where's she from?"

"Scotland. That's not in England, Dean."

"Shut up, I know." He jerked his chin out, forever confused about the different divisions of England, or Britain, or the UK, whatever. Tea-Land-Mc-No-Sense. He wasn't about to admit that to Sam, though. "Alright, so who else disappeared?"

Sam's quirky smile touched his face. "_She _did."

"Yeah, I got that."

"No, this has happened to her before, except Ms Pond has only disappeared for a few weeks at a time."

"Maybe she went on vacation," scoffed Dean. This wasn't like Sam to clutch at useless information.

"No, Dean, she literally disappeared. Like, she lost her job four times for taking unrequested leave."

"Four times? Wow."

"Yeah, exactly," said Sam. "And guess what else? She used to say that 'the crack' in her bedroom scared her, and the 'ragged man' promised to fix it, but he never did. Everyone just thought she was crazy, but how much do you wanna bet that her parents disappearance coincides with the appearance of the crack in her bedroom?"

Sam began folding up the map, and Dean could tell from his straight back that Sam was feeling pleased with himself. It couldn't be denied, Sam was pretty awesome at digging up leads.

"So we have four missing people," Sam went on, "not including Ms Pond's parents, and four, probably five identical cracks left in their homes. The only difference in Kevin's case is that Castiel appeared."

"It's gotta be a portal," said Dean. "Castiel was stuck in purgatory. _Stuck_. Not staying there for a picnic. Maybe, if certain conditions are met in purgatory, or if the angels... Argh!" He shook his head and threw up his hands. "I don't know."

Sam's hair fell over his eyes as he took all of this on board. "If it's a portal, how do you activate it? We studied these things in every way – yelled all kind of spells at them. Even Cas doesn't know how he came through."

"Maybe it only works once."

A small gasp left Sam, his eyes lit up, and Dean felt his pulse quicken. Dammit, he knew that look. "What?"

"Maybe it requires a two-way-swap, like an exchange. That's why Kevin disappeared and Castiel came out. Kevin's not stuck just anywhere, he's in purgatory."

A sick, leaden weight poured through Dean's limbs. Kevin was a great kid, a smart kid, but he wasn't much of a fighter. From personal experience, Dean knew that Kevin was as good as dead. He clenched his hands, unwilling to let that thought take root. Maybe he'd find a friend, like Dean had. Maybe...

"Okay, so what?" Dean said, trying to keep his voice steady. "I didn't see any angels in the last two homes we checked out. If a swap happens, and other people have been disappearing, then what the hell is taking their place?"

Sam just shook his head, face filled with the same fear Dean felt clawing his guts into knots. What if the leviathans were slinking back? What if all their hard work was being undone? Hopelessness threatened to cripple Dean where he sat, so before that happened, he swung out of his seat and said, "Let's go. You're still driving."


	3. A Curious Blue Box

**A CURIOUS BLUE BOX**

The name of the first weeping angel is Samael, and when he was cast from Heaven his cruse took hold at once. His body became a prison of stone, and although his lips could not move, nor his eye shed another tear; his brothers heard him still. They heard his rage and heartbreak, and they took pity.

- _a piece of paper torn from an unknown book; found in the diary of John Winchester_

* * *

Despite Sherlock seeming to know what was going on, John hadn't quite caught up to the same page. He made an attempt to call for Sherlock as he strode from Ms Pond's bedroom, but knew very little would stop him from running about now.

John groaned at the thought of trying to get a text from him, telling his a location. Sherlock neglected text responses and phone calls even at the best of times. No, he'd rather not spend the day chasing after him.

"Gotta go," he sighed to Lestrade, wishing he could stay and question him.

"We'll call you," Lestrade replied.

With a nod, John raced after Sherlock. He caught a glimpse of his black curls bobbing down the stairs before vanishing completely. John took the stairs two at a time and made to follow him out into the street, but to his surprise, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Long, mid-morning shadows stretched across the road.

"Sherlock?" he called.

A faint reply came from inside the house. "This way, John." He headed back into the hall and caught another glimpse of Sherlock in the kitchen, heading to the back door. John caught up and entered the garden with him.

"Why are we out here?" he asked, hands on hips.

Sherlock paused in scrutinising the grass to look up at him with bright, excited eyes. "She left the house without being seen," he said. "How?" He carried on pacing, his boots covered in dew.

"How do you know she just left?"

"Oh, come on! The front door was locked, no one forced their way in or out. She left. So, how did she leave? You can't just waltz through London unnoticed, Peel Street alone has every lamppost visible to cameras." He cut off his tirade and pointed at the ground. Anxious to see what he'd discovered, John crept in closer.

Sherlock paced his way to the garden fence where he reached up, gripped the top and pulled himself up. He looked left and right, up and down, before letting go and dropping beside John again. He looked all the more perplexed.

"She couldn't have snuck out here, either. But look at the ground, it's still soft and these prints aren't like the ones in the house. No... They're walking towards the house." He foze, staring at the kitchen window, unable to click things into place. John knew almost his every expression by now.

Sherlock shook his head, grinding his jaw. "There _must_ be a blind spot somewhere. We'll come back to this..." With that, eyes glazed over, he charged off again. John followed him through the house, out the front door and into the street.

"Where are you going?" asked John, ducking under the police tape and nearly falling over in his attempt to keep up.

"To the lab," Sherlock replied.

"What for?"

"The plant pot in her room wasn't simply decaying, it was going purple." He produced a clear plastic wallet from his coat pocket, and held it up for John to catch a glimpse of the leaf inside. Sherlock had such a bounce in his step that John half expected him to start skipping.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"The air, John. The _air_. There shouldn't have been such a strong stream of air coming from that crack. What if a kind of toxin is leaking into her bedroom? What if, should one inhale enough of it, you—"

"Decay?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. "No, don't be an idiot. It's not like you."

"I was being sardonic." Sometimes John wished his was taller, just so he could slap the back of Sherlock's head without looking like an idiot. Give him a quick shove, just to knock some social aptitude into him.

"Well don't," said Sherlock, sticking his hands deep into his pockets. "As I was saying, what if inhaling too much of the toxin causes hallucinations, or paranoia? What if it drives someone to flee from their current circumstances, brought about by an irrational fear?"

"Aren't you speculating a bit much? A fear of what? And wait!" John froze mid-step, grabbing Sherlock's sleeve. "If there's a toxin in Ms Pond's bedroom, we need to warn the others."

Sherlock bent over him as he replied, and John saw a dozen different possibilities still being processed behind Sherlock's eyes. How did he align anything in that head of his? Constantly thinking, constantly assessing, constantly judging. A shiver scuttled down John's spine.

"Don't _worry_," said Sherlock, shaking his head. "Like I said, that crack has been there for years. It takes timeto have any effect, and lots of it. And no, I don't think I'm speculating too much. Ms Pond's calendar – pinned to the fridge – she'd planned a holiday in Scotland this week. With such a busy lifestyle, you'd have to start planning, you'd have to _stick _to plans."

The faster he spoke, the faster he paced around John, waving his hands and pointing every time he said 'you', swinging about as if conducting an orchestra. John just let him get on with it, ready to frog-march after Sherlock when he burst into action again.

"So," he rippled on, "our three questions are this: How did Ms Pond leave the house and catch a flight undetected?"

"We don't know if she—"

"What is leaking into her bedroom? And who left these cracks to begin with?"

"You mean, you do think they're signatures?"

"Yes, of course." John jerked back, irritated that Sherlock had tried to refute their claims of such a thing to begin with. Sherlock paid no attention to him, however, and carried on muttering. "And I still believe the crack has always been there, so what does it mean...?"

"Then why did you tell Gregson to look for wires?" John asked.

Sherlock suppressed a sly smile, but not before John saw the flicker of his lips.

"I look forward to seeing what he comes up with," Sherlock said.

"You are cruel, you know that?" said John, shaking his head.

"Not at all," he replied. They carried on walking to the main road, John's legs working double-time to match Sherlock's stride. "Besides, Gregson would consider that Ms Pond is involved with the disappearance in Scotland if he knew her plans."

"You don't think she is?"

"No. She's part of it – not behind it, I'd wager. But now we really are speculating! No more questions. We need more facts." He halted and spun around, catching John's arm to make him stop, too. "Call Lestrade. Tell him to check Gatwick airport's outbound flights to Glasgow, Aberdeen and Edinburgh. Did an Amelia Pond check in?"

He didn't even wait for a response; he began searching for a taxi.

Taking a deep breath, John pinned his arms to his sides, unwilling to be affected by Sherlock's intensity. Keeping up with him was stressful. His pace of speech and ability to bounce from one corner of London to the next – even a nun's blood pressure would start to falter.

"Right," he muttered. "As you command."

With a better grasp on what Sherlock intended to do next, John left him to his own devices at the lab. He prepared his own mission and stopped by Donovan's office to pick up the necessary documentation so far, then set off home. He needed to clear his head and study in peace.

John cracked open the living room window to allow in a summer breeze, carrying with it the grumbles of Marylebone district, and then made himself a cup of tea. Time to fill in the blanks.

He cleared the table beneath the window and spread out the current reports on the other two cases. He began with the one in Scotland:

CASE NAME/NUMBER: Stew0010713

COMPLAINANTS NAME: Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart

NAME OF MISSING PERSON: Kate Stewart

DATE REPORTED MISSING: 28th of June, 2013

BRIEF BACKGROUND: Kate Stewart is the mother of Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, and the daughter of Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart; founder of [CLASSIFIED]. Kate Stewart is a British citizen of English and Scottish decent, aged 42. She is a member of [CLASSIFIED], post of Head of Scientific Research.

_Classified? _thought John. He wondered if Lestrade had told Sherlock everything upon first summoning him, or if Lestrade even had access to this 'classified' information. Did Sherlock know the organisation this woman worked for? Could he figure it out even if he didn't? _Classified_... The word chimed round and round his head. Maybe it wasn't important. John couldn't let himself get hooked up on one odd twist of information.

LAST SEEN: Kate Stewart was last seen outside Dunblane Cathedral at 22:00, 27th June, 2013. Cameras saw her pacing around the perimeter and loitering by the front doors for ten minutes before leaving in the direction of Kirk Street.

_I know, I'll ask Mycroft! Nothing's classified for him. No, focus. Read. Dunblane. Wait, what? _Why would anyone be outside a cathedral at ten o'clock at night? John flipped open his pocket notebook and made a note. Oh God, he hoped he wouldn't have to traipse up and down the country on Sherlock's behalf when he heard this nugget of information, just to investigate his resulting whims.

John carried on reading, aware that his cup of tea was draining faster than he liked.

COMPLAINANTS REPORT: My mother phoned me in a fit of distress around 20:15 on Thursday evening. She said, "Something's not right. I can't get hold of Sarah Jane. I'm begin watched, I can feel it. I would just feel safer if I wasn't by myself." I left for her house right away.

I arrived there roughly two and a half hours later. I knocked on every door and window I could get to, I tried calling her mobile. In the end, I broke open the front door [by kicking it in]. I found no trace of my mother. I searched the whole house, even her hidden office, then went back outside to check if her car was still parked in the driveway. It was.

I slept in my car and waited outside the house, but fell asleep about 03:00. I woke up at 05:00, but my mother still wasn't responding to my calls and she hadn't returned to the house. That's when I called to report her missing. END STATEMENT.

After reading Mr Stewart-Lethbridge's report, John made another note: _victim feared she was being watched. _Perhaps Sherlock was right about a toxin that heightened a person's fears, but it wasn't exactly 'irrational' if someone _had been _watching Ms Kate Stewart and then abducted her.

John browsed through the inspector's report, finding nothing out of the ordinary, frustrated that the inspector had neglected to observe; or indeed mention; the crack. Instead, it was added in the appendixes as an afterthought.

INSPECTOR SENT TO INVESTIGATE REPORT: Detective Inspector Bernard McKeeley.

INSPECTOR'S REPORT [APPENDIXE C]: The photos taken of Kate Stewart's house were given to Sarah Jane Smith; affiliated with but not a member of [CLASSIFIED]; after being granted special permissions. She noted the connections between Kate Stewart's disappearance and a missing person's case in Dorset, reported two days later...

"Yes, yes," grumbled John, "a crack, what else?"

(CONT.) ...and a miniature replica of a 1940s police box. Sarah Jane Smith claimed this had significance and probably involved a man named "the Doctor". Further information on "the Doctor" is withheld. Sarah Jane Smith's hypothesis has been omitted as classified information.

John sucked on his lips, already sick of the word 'classified'. Yes, he was definitely calling Mycroft later. He made another note in his book; _All three victims kept a miniature 1940s police box_; praying Sherlock wouldn't send him off to hunt down this red-wrapped Sarah Jane.

Massaging his temples, John opened up the next case file.

CASE NAME/NUMBER: Spar0010713

COMPLAINANTS NAME: Larry Nightingale

NAME OF MISSING PERSON: Sally Sparrow

DATE REPORTED MISSING: 30th of June, 2013

More tea. John needed more tea. Buckets of tea.

Just as he stood from his chair, their land lady, Mrs Hudson, knocked on the main door to their flat. She stuck her head in upon John's greeting, and gave her familiar, sweet, eye-crinkling smile. She was a petite old lady with wispy hair and fond of the colour purple.

"Hello dear," she said, "it's a lovely day. Why aren't you outside?"

"Mrs Hudson," he replied, "you're timing is perfect. Come in."

Despite appearances, Mrs Hudson had a way of pointing out the simplest facts that sometimes eluded everyone else. And she brewed a great pot of tea.


	4. A Glimpse of an Angel

**A/N: I am also uploading this story to Ao3 (check my profile for the link). I kind of prefer posting there as the layout is smoother, formatting is lush and the tags - ****_the tags! _****Thank you for reading so far. You're wonderful and it makes me superduperhappy. :3**

* * *

**A GLIMPSE OF AN ANGEL**

_Run. Keep running. Run until you can't breathe. Then face the inevitable. Beside you; a blood sucking monster. Your only friend. The only one who understands. Understands this. Understands you. Maybe the only one who ever will. There are no secrets. Only knowing glances and firm hands there to catch each other when you fall. A monster._

_'Benny...'_

_Sharp teeth fill your mouth._

_'Benny...'_

_You trust him. Trust him completely. Trust him more than you've trusted anyone in a long, long time. God, it feels good. You can depend on him. It feels warm, like hot coffee and pancakes after days without money. It feels free, like dreams of flying beside Castiel. _

_Stop._

_Cas._

_Gotta find Cas._

_Keep running._

_It's hot. Hotter. The trees are on fire, the grey sky melts into an orange inferno. This is Hell. _

_'Benny?'_

_Gone. No! Where?_

_A scream of agony. There, there – Benny! Pinned to the wheel of torture and holding the knife—_

"Cas!" Dean jolted awake and smacked his head on the passenger window. Sam cried out in surprise and jerked the wheel, but regained control of the car in seconds. Sunlight blazed into Dean's eyes and a motorway stretched out ahead of him; a familiar, safe sight; and beside him, Sam, driving steady.

"You okay?" asked Sam.

Dean tasted his sandy tongue and straightened up. "Ugh, I thought it was supposed to always rain in England."

Sam worked his jaw, no doubt chewing back a comment on Dean's habit of crying out Castiel's name. Did he say it out loud this time? Man, like their 'special bond' wasn't embarrassing enough.

"Apparently not," Sam replied.

"How long was I out?"

"About an hour."

"We nearly there yet?"

"Another hour to go."

Dean checked the dashboard clock and saw that they would reach their destination by about one o'clock.

A flash of his dream – the image of Castiel – flickered through his mind. A horrific image, but such a juxtaposition to the Cas he knew now. Worried. Broken. Child-like...

He wanted the old Cas back. The one before purgatory, before leviathans, before they ended the apocalypse. The one who was there in the thick of it, and who smiled with open affection – with understanding. Without pity. Dean could barely remember what that looked like.

A bigger part of him wanted Cas to go back to tending the bees and holding Meg's hand (Meg, of all people), but he also preferred it when Cas had a full bag of marbles. He was hiding. He was hurting. Becoming a hunter or aiding the sick wouldn't cure his self-hatred, but Dean couldn't blame him for trying. He'd worn the same blue shoes many a time...

"He'll show up," said Sam.

Dean threw a glance at his brother, his cheeks reddening and throat shrinking. "Yeah, whatever."

Sam shrugged his shoulders with a forlorn sigh. "What are you thinking?" Sometimes Dean imagined a universe where Sam wrote agony aunt columns for some girly magazine in New York. He fit the image comfortably.

"Nothing," Dean said. "Let's stop for lunch. London's gonna burn a bigger hole in our pockets than the countryside, apparently."

"Yeah, I heard the same," he said. Dean was glad he didn't pursue the subject of Cas. "Sounds like a plan."

* * *

_Who the fuck designed London? _thought Dean, as they circled through Piccadilly Circus for the third time. They didn't find Peal Street until gone two in the afternoon. The house they needed was still decorated with police tape, but the road itself was clear of official cars. The front door, however, was guarded by a pair of police officers.

"You kiddin'?" groaned Dean. "Now what?"

Sam twisted in his seat, peering at the street corners. "I dunno. There must be a camera blind spot somewhere. I don't think posing as the FBI is gonna cut it this time."

"Couldn't we say the case has gone international?" he replied, half serious.

"Think how that'll look. Two FBI agents trying to muscle their way onto a classified crime scene, without giving the watchdogs over there," he pointed at the police officers, flipping hair out of his eyes, "prior notice of foreign intervention. Yeah, tell me how that can't go wrong. Are we going with Agent Starsky and Agent Hutch this time?"

Dean threw his hands in the air. "Then you think of somethin', genius." He took a deep breath. Taking his frustrations out on Sam wouldn't help anything. Kevin had to be found. Without Kevin, they couldn't read the Word of God. Without a translation, they couldn't close the gates of Hell forever, and finding another prophet wasn't an option – not on Dean's watch. They weren't throwing that kid to the flames.

A thought came to him, totally off topic.

"Hey," said Dean, "do you think this freak British heat is an apocalypse after effect?"

Sam shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno, maybe? Can we focus here?"

"Right. Right. How about you give them the smoulder, and I'll sneak in around back."

Sam choked on a laugh, unimpressed. "Seriously?"

Hitting the dashboard multiple times wouldn't change anything, but it was a lot better than hitting his brother's smug face. Dean clenched his fists. "This is why we don't hunt in big cities, man," he said. "We can't pop the trunk and browse through our gear. So, what do _we_ do? We go to one of the most watched cities in the world!"

A fluttering echoed in the backseat, the sound of wings, so subtle neither of them noticed.

"Hello."

At Castiel's deep voice, they jumped and Dean's gut tensed as if expecting a blow.

"Cas!" cheered Sam.

Barely acknowledging him, Cas said, "The energy is inside that house."

Dean rolled his eyes, feeling the tension release. "Thanks, Captain Obvious. Where have you been? This isn't a holiday tour." He hadn't seen Cas since he'd zapped them to England, and it wouldn't surprise Dean if he had gone sight-seeing the rest of Europe.

Castiel trained his lack-lustre gaze on him. "I've figured it out."

Unsure what to expect and almost too afraid to ask, Sam and Dean glanced at each other.

"What?" asked Dean.

"The energy coming from these cracks feels like the vibrations that occur when a platypus hits its bill on a rock underwater."

They groaned, and Dean turned away. "Thank you," he sighed. "Very helpful." The weight in his chest grew heavier. He realised the gnawing ache he couldn't get rid of, was hope. Dean couldn't stop nursing the hope that Castiel would just snap out of it; focus and start making sense. He made sense, once.

Dean ground his jaw and left Sam to exercise his holy patience.

"Do you think you could get us inside?" Sam asked.

Dean felt Cas's hand on his shoulder, blinked, and found himself in someone's hallway. Sunlight poured in through a window above the main door. Sam stood by his side and Cas between them.

"Okay, good," said Dean, then froze. He heard voices on the other side of the door – the officers on duty.

"It's upstairs," said Cas, and disappeared before either of them had fully registered where the stairs were. They heard footfalls walk across the ceiling, and Dean knew that Cas wouldn't have the sense to stay away from any windows. Understanding passed between Sam and Dean, aware of the same problem, and they rushed upstairs after him; hobbling as they went in an attempt at stealth.

"Cas?" hissed Dean as soon as he entered Ms Pond's bedroom. He spotted him in the far corner next to her bed, staring at a picture on the wall.

"Get away from there," Dean said, aware of how close he was to the window. "C'mon man, you can't—" He cut himself off. Why bother? Charging over to the window, Dean snapped the curtains shut.

"Dean, look," said Sam.

At first, Dean thought he meant at the crack in the wall. It looked like all the others, so, good. Some form of consistency, a pattern. He liked patterns. Patterns meant links – trails. Usually answers at the end of them with a pretty, bloody, bow. But then he noticed what Sam was holding. A blue police box.

"Either it's some British pop culture fad," Dean said, "like salt shakers, or we've got a case of _Indian in the Cupboard._"

Sam smirked. "Yeah, I don't think people are gonna fit in this, do you?" Sometimes, Dean wondered if life would be simpler if magic worked like it did on TV, but then he remembered Gabriel's trip to TV Land and no, no, no. Dusty books and ancient rules were much better – _stick with the program, Dean._

He saw Sam try to open the police box all the same, like maybe Ms Pond could be inside it and turned into a figurine.

"It's cardboard," Sam patronised. Dean just raised his eyebrows. He saw that.

"But what's the connection?" Dean asked. He stroked his chin, tempted to throw the blue box out the window. He picked up the knitted doll of a man with a bowtie and fez, instead. "This is new." He traced the stitches on its arm.

"Hey, look at this," said Sam. He flipped the police box upside down where, on the bottom, the word 'Doctor' was written. "Think it means anything?"

Dean shrugged. "Doctor? Doctor of what? Salt shakers?"

Cas turned his back on the picture of a Roman. "Doctor..." he repeated. "Platypus vibrations..."

_Seriously? _Dean thought, keeping his mouth firmly shut. But Cas ignored Dean's stern frown and headed over to the crack in the wall. That painful flicker of hope sprang up in Dean's chest again.

"The energy coming from this," said Cas, "is not simply magic, it's the very fabric of time and space. That's why it feels different – why I couldn't place it before." He stroked the splintered brickwork, tilting his head as if trying to understand one of their jokes.

"But what does that _mean_?" asked Sam.

"It means an ancient creature is at work." Cas pressed his ear to the crack as he spoke. "He's often called 'warrior', or 'time lord', but he has assumed the name 'Doctor' in your language."

"What doctor?" cried Dean.

Silence filled the room. Cas squinted as if trying to decipher angel frequency. Waiting for a reply seemed to take an age and Dean distracted himself by studying the Roman painting.

"This is pointless," he muttered to Sam.

"Yeah. How about you go and interview the ex-husband, and I'll—"

Cas straightened up, about to speak, but his words were lost beneath Sam's cry of horror. In the bedroom doorway, arms outstretched and mouth twisted into a silent, sharp-fanged scream; stood a statue. Wings stretched from its back, out into the landing.

"What the hell is that?" cried Sam.

It hadn't been there before. Who put it there? How did it get there? How had it got there without a sound? Demons?

"Who's there?" demanded Dean, trying to see past its head and into the corridor beyond. As he made to cross the room, Castiel seized his arm, never once looking from the stone figure.

"Don't move! Don't look away." Case rarely raised his voice, and Dean hadn't heard absolute authority in it for years. He froze, looking from Cas's taught face to the doorway.

"What? What is it?"

No reply.

"_What _is it?"

"Sam, come here. Now." Dean felt Cas's grip tighten on his arm.

"Could you frighten me a little less?" Dean said as Sam obeyed and came to Cas's other side. "What—"

Dean blinked.

He found himself seated behind the wheel of a car. "Aw c'mon!" he cried, recognising the rental he did _not _want to drive. He felt a pang of longing for his baby, the impala.

Sam, in the passenger's seat, got his priorities straight first. He twisted to face Cas in the backseat. "What was that about?" he asked. But Cas had gone a pasty colour, afraid and distant, and Dean wondered for the hundredth time: _is this my fault?_ He should never have left Cas behind.

When he answered, Cas sounded mechanical. "It was a weeping angel," he said.

"Is that a subdivision? What's bad—"

Cas spoke over him. "Don't look away from them. Keep your eyes on them at all times. Do not trust them. Never come back here without me." And with that, he vanished; folded between the rifts of his world and theirs.

"Great," said Sam, running a hand through his hair, but Dean stared at Ms Pond's bedroom window. A deep chill travelled down his spine and into his stomach. The stone angel had pulled the curtain back part way, and it stood there, staring at him with wide, blank eyes.

"Keep your eye on that," he murmured. Sam went rigid in his peripheral, seeing the same thing.

"Yeah," Sam replied.

Dean reversed the hell outta there.

An hour later, with Sam dropped off to do research in their latest hotel room, Dean pulled up outside Rory William's terrace house. He marched up the front steps and hit the buzzer. "Alright, Florence Nightingale, you better have some answers."

He started fiddling with his collar. Was it choking him, or was he just super nervous? He tried to tell himself he could pull off being a member of a foreign division he knew nothing about, confidence was the key. Confidence. He had the suit, right? And as much as he hated white-collar dress code, he appreciated how easy it was to mimic. Just as Dean was readjusting his tie, Rory opened the door.

"Ah, you must be Rory Williams," he said, business face in check and doing his best to keep a neutral accent. "I'm Agent Fleetwood, from MI5." He flashed his badge, nervous by the hostility and fear that flooded into Rory's face. MI5 was like the FBI, right? _God_, this case sucked.

"What?" said Rory. He was a lean guy with his shoulders hunched up high. Dean suspect he was constantly on guard.

"May I come in? I'm investigating your ex-wife's disappearance."

"Her Majesty's Secret Service is looking into Amy? Is there something I should know?"

"That's what I'm hoping you can tell me." Despite years of practice, Dean's knees shook. He started to wonder if London could hear his every word as well as see him.

"I've already given my statement, can't you get it—"

"Second-hand information isn't usually our style."

Rory gave him a blank look, eyes burning with cynicism. "Are you for real?" he asked.

_Smile, smile, smile. Winning smile. _Dean forced his lips upwards. "I'm for real, sir. Would you like to see my badge again, or shall I get permission to search through all your living records?"

Is that what an MI5 agent would say? Screw it, he'd seen James Bond. Wait, was that the same division? Who fucking knew just _buy the lie already, man!_

Rory assessed him from head to toe again before inviting Dean inside. He led the way to the flat upstairs and into a narrow, grubby kitchen. It was sparse, more than anything else, and littered with empty water glasses, half-drunk tea mugs and mini-saucepans in the sink. The white cupboards reflected the afternoon sun.

"So..." said Rory, crossing his arms.

Dean kept his gaze level with him. "Right. I think we can both agree that this is a pretty odd case; what with the Grand Canyon in your ex-wife's bedroom; no sign of a struggle, no paper trail, nothing caught on cameras; yadda, yadda, but this isn't the first time Ms Pond – Amy – has disappeared, am I right?"

Rory paled. "What are you implying?"

Good question. How did he phrase this? _Is your wife inside a tiny box? _Dean leant against the countertop, assuming his wisest and all-knowing pose. "I'm implying that your wife—"

"Ex-wife."

"Ex-wife – has a track record of skipping class."

Rory raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Take two. "What I mean is, she lost her job – a lot. You did, too, right? The question is, where did you go?"

If there was a prize for unhelpful hand-gestures and never starting a sentence, this guy would take home the gold. Rory stiffened, his arms wooden as he tried to mimic Dean's posture.

"No," he said.

"No?" Dean narrowed one eye.

"No, we didn't go anywhere. I mean, we went _somewhere_, but... Why are you guys looking into this again?"

Tongue in cheek, Dean pushed off from the counter and began to pace the kitchen. He called it 'owning the moment'. Rory tucked his hands under his arms, huffing and puffing, and bounced on his foot. He'd crack any moment, unable to bear the scrutiny, and Dean commended himself on illegally joining MI5. Or 6. Whichever.

"Look, I don't know what you want from me," cried Rory, arms flailing and sleeves flapping over his hands. "We haven't spoken in ages. She wants nothing to do with me." A mixture of resentment; three parts sorrow; came out as he said this.

"I'm not here to play couple's therapy, so why don't you just answer my question. Where did you go?"

Rory avoided eye-contact, even when Dean tried to make him focus. His next words would be lies, probably watered down versions of the truth. Probably.

"We got stuck up North in a castle we were visiting," gushed Rory. His statement came out in a tumbling rush, not at all stuttery and vague like Dean had expected. "Our car broke down, our mobile's had no signal. We were only supposed to be gone for one day! We went on a Sunday. That's why we didn't take holiday leave, or call in sick. We couldn't!"

"Alright, alright." Dean waved him down, still determined to get _something _useful of this guy. "That explains one circumstance. What about when you disappeared a second time? And while we're at it, maybe you can tell me how Ms Pond's parents disappeared when she was a child."

The colour puce did not suit people. Rory's next excuse caught in his throat; Dean half expected him to throw up. He took a cautionary step back, just in case.

"I don't know," said Rory, shaking his head. "And she never really talked about it, before you ask." His panic disappeared and he met Dean's gaze with a sombre air of finality. It made his mouth dry, catching this glimpse of someone so heartbroken. He recognised the weary lines around Rory's eyes – lines forged under stress, travel, isolation.

"Look," said Dean, "all we wanna do is find her, make sure she's safe. What can you tell me about the police box in her room?"

Rory straightened up, face taught again. "What?"

_Time for no-shit-Wolverine mode. _"Does 'the Doctor' mean anything to you?"

Rory almost fell over standing still. "No."

Lying.

"Who is he?"

"I think you need to leave." He fled to the kitchen door and swung it open. Rory held it for Dean, stuck in place like a plank of wood.

Keeping his cool, Dean took his time crossing the kitchen. He peered deep into Rory's eyes and planted himself in the doorway. "They didn't send me here for a routine check. I'm here because this is serious business and I'm the guy who handles _serious _business, if you catch my drift." He swiped a card from his pocket and handed it to Rory, one of his mobile numbers printed on it. "Call me if you remember anything."

Tweaking a smile, Dean lopped down the stairs. When he reached the front door, he chanced a final glance up at Rory who was still frozen in place. He'd call. _Well, he better freakin' call_. Rory knew something.

Sighing, Dean stepped outside and undid his tie. Time to see what Sam had dug up.


End file.
